


This Violent Heart

by river_soul



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27896896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_soul/pseuds/river_soul
Summary: When you glance at Bucky beside you for an explanation you find him sitting unnaturally still with his hands resting palm down on his thighs. He gazes straight ahead but it’s not until you see the empty look in his blue eyes, the lack of any life in them that you understand. You were briefed extensively on the Winter Soldier before you started working with him, taught to recognize when he was triggered. He’s not Bucky anymore.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 40
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into a darker MCU fic. Please read the warnings carefully and as always, feedback is appreciated! Many thanks to @cherryslibrary and @daddys-minty-princess for their help!
> 
> Warnings: Violence. Future chapters will include PTSD, panic attacks, allusions to noncon with minor flashback but nothing explicit.

You can tell Bucky is growing more anxious and uncomfortable as the night drags on. You watch him tug at the collar of his tuxedo and smooth down his hair. As his first event without Steve or Sam by his side, you anticipated this reaction. It's why you’re trying your best to keep conversations with donors short and move him through the expected stops quickly. There are still more people who want to see him, but you know Bucky’s approaching his limit for the evening when you see him start rhythmically clenching and unclenching the gloved hand at his side. 

Were he anyone else, you might reach out and smooth your hand down his arm or whisper encouraging words to ease the tension, but with Bucky, you’re not sure it would be welcomed. He’s not like the other Avengers whose trust and friendship you had time to earn over the last two years as you did your best to change the narrative pushed by General Ross and protect them from public scrutiny. You only met Bucky recently when Pepper tasked you with rehabilitating his public image to ease concerns about his involvement with the Avengers. Steve had been resistant to the idea at first, unwilling to subject his friend to any more pain and suffering, but you’d won him over with your passionate defense of Bucky to the press and the plan you’d laid out to ease him into the public eye. 

You started small, scheduling visits to Veterans Affairs with Steve and Sam and a photographer but no press. It took months before he was ready for a journalist you trusted to join them and ask easy unobtrusive questions. The stories they wrote got decent coverage, but it wasn’t until Buzzfeed dedicated an entire photo essay to Bucky’s visit to the kids at [Camp No Limits ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fnolimitsfoundation.org%2F&t=ZTNhMTE1NTJkN2E4ZDAyZWNhNGZmZDJhNjlhYTk3ODk3MGZmNTAzZSw2ZThiYTEzYjAyYjQ2YTFkMmE5YjAzZGM4NzM3YmU1MDlkOWQzMjYw&ts=1607179059)that press coverage and public opinion started to turn positive. After that, Bucky received invites to join Steve at charity events and galas which worked well since Steve was the best at coaxing out Bucky’s personality and beautiful smile.

Working the room with you now, you know Bucky looks only marginally less miserable than he did when you briefly abandoned him for a bathroom break. There is no bright smile or easy laughter without Steve at his side. Bucky only answers questions when asked and leaves it up to you to smooth over any awkwardness. You don’t mind easing situations where you can. You’d been eager to help Bucky even before you met him. It was hard not to be sympathetic after all he’d endured.

Your less than professional feelings for him only developed after you started working one on one with him. The time you spent preparing him for the public and press gave you glimpses into the real man beneath the tortured exterior. You saw how good and kind he still was despite all he suffered and how he worked so hard to heal and grow. Your crush was getting dangerously close to slipping into something infinitely more complex even though you knew nothing could possibly ever come of it.

Lost in your musings, you almost miss the approach of Senator Wellington. His gait is unsteady, his face red from too much alcohol and you feel Bucky tense beside you as he reaches out to clap Bucky on the shoulder. 

“Hello Senator,” you say with a wide smile, stepping in front of Bucky to intercept the senator's hand and draw it into a firm handshake. Bucky echoes your greeting but falls silent immediately after. You quickly redirect the Senator’s attention to his reelection campaign. You let him babble, interjecting a comment here and there about certain bills the Avengers are lending their support to until he wanders away.

“I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you go wait in the car,” you murmur to Bucky, catching the grateful look in his eyes as you both watch a small group of women approach. You’d met them earlier in the evening when you broke the news that Steve had been called away on an emergency mission and only Bucky was in attendance. They’d done a poor job of hiding their disappointment or the looks of distaste they gave Bucky. It made you want to slap their overly botoxed faces, but a lifetime’s work in public relations kept a pleasant smile on your face as you apologized to them on behalf of the Avengers Initiative and Steve. This was the worst part of your job, pandering to rich assholes whose money had so much potential to help but only if you grovelled enough and satisfied their ego. 

Glancing back at Bucky’s retreating figure you know he’ll be fine waiting in the limo Pepper insisted you both take into the city. It might even be best to give him time to decompress before you join him for the long ride back to the compound but in reality, you're tired and want to leave too. You’ve schmoozed enough for one evening.

You cut off further conversation when the women reach you with a quick lie, accepting their overly perfumed hugs and cloying kisses on your cheek with a promise to have Steve drop by at their next gala to smooth over any lingering unhappiness. Most of them cut substantial checks to the charity tonight and Steve is affable enough to follow through on your pledge so long as you didn’t mention the veiled comments they made about Bucky. 

Once you break free from the busy ballroom you breathe a sigh of relief, grasping the hem of your dress so you don’t trip. You slip into the waiting limo, the driver shutting the door behind you as you send off a quick email to Pepper to let her know how the event went. You’re in the middle of rebuffing an overly enthusiastic journalist from Women’s Health who wants to interview Natasha about her dieting regimen (again!) via text when someone clears their throat. 

You look up, surprised to see an unfamiliar man sitting at the other end of the limo. He’s middle-aged, well dressed in a suit with perfectly coiffed black hair. You don’t immediately feel afraid - Bucky wouldn’t let someone dangerous in the limo. 

“Can I help you?” you ask politely.

The stranger only smiles in response but doesn’t speak.

When you glance at Bucky beside you for an explanation you find him sitting unnaturally still with his hands resting palm down on his thighs. He gazes straight ahead but it’s not until you see the empty look in his blue eyes, the lack of any life in them that you understand. You were briefed extensively on the Winter Soldier before you started working with him, taught to recognize when he was triggered. 

He’s not Bucky anymore. 

You lunge for the door, lips parted to call for help from the driver but you’re pulled back roughly before you can reach the handle. A metal hand clamps around your throat and cuts off your scream as you struggle against the arm around your middle. You land half sprawled over Bucky’s lap, twisting your body and kicking your legs out as you try to escape his grip. When that fails you claw at his face but Bucky’s placid expression never changes, not even when you draw blood. After a brief moment of struggle, he flips you, forcing you to kneel between his legs with your back to him. 

Desperate to breathe you try to pry his metal hand off your neck but Bucky wrenches your arms behind your back to immobilize you. The thumb he digs under your jaw forces you to look up and meet the gaze of the stranger at the other end of the limo. He and Bucky exchange a brief, clipped conversation in Russian before the pressure on your neck relents and you draw in greedy breaths of air. 

“I apologize for our rough introduction,” the man says with a smile that might be considered charming under other circumstances, but right now, all you can feel is terror, your heart beating wildly against your chest. “We expected Sergeant Barnes to be alone after the Captain was drawn away.”

When he leans forward you catch sight of the silver ring on his hand, the unmistakable image of hydra’s emblem carved into the metal.

“I suppose no introductions are in order,” he says with a smile before reaching out to tuck a piece of hair that escaped from your updo behind your ear. His touch is soft, kind even but the malice in his gaze is unmistakable. “I must admit your presence does save us the time of finding a test subject to determine how well the Asset’s conditioning held up.”

Cold dread spreads through your body at the implications of his words. You feel yourself start to hyperventilate, panic clawing up your throat as you struggle against Bucky’s grip. The hand around your neck and the one around your wrists keep you still so you can only flinch when the man reaches out to touch your face. He traces the outline of your lips and the curve of your jaw before he withdraws his hand and leans back.

“It’s a shame to waste a pretty girl on something like this,” he says with a sigh. He sounds regretful but there’s a glitter of anticipation in his eyes that makes your stomach churn. 

He nods to Bucky behind you then and the whirl of plates shifting in his arm is your only warning before the pressure on your neck increases. Pain and terror flood your body as your lungs burn and black spots appear in your vision. The last thing you see as darkness rushes in to greet you is the cold, terrible smile on the man’s face. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You look haggard and your skin feels like it’s stretched too tight over the bones of your face. Eyes just as empty as Bucky’s had been. You touch the thin, neat line of red that splits your bottom lip in two. The rest of your face is smooth and unmarked. The man wanted to keep you pretty. 
> 
> “They’ll need to recognize the body, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings - Allusions to noncon with minor flashback. Mentions of violence.

When you’re rescued, Natasha is the one to find you. Later, when the shock and horror have worn off you’ll be thankful it was her. 

Her touch feels overly warm on your chilled skin as she works to unlock the handcuffs. She’s careful to avoid the torn skin around your wrist as she eases them off and helps you sit up. You stare at her red lips as she speaks to you but all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears. Everything feels far away, a hazy film settled between you and the rest of the world. When she sweeps her gaze over your body there’s a flash of something in her eyes. Pain, grief, and anger but it’s gone as soon as it appears. 

You should feel something too you think but there’s only an overwhelming numbness, cold seeping into your veins. Natasha helps you stand, pulling the tattered remains of your dress around your body to cover your nudity. Were you naked? Your brows furrow as you try to remember. 

Bucky and the limo. 

Hydra. 

A knife cutting through your dress, cold blue eyes above you, and then suddenly it all comes rushing back to you in horrible technicolor. Natasha barely makes it out of the way as you wretch up the contents of your stomach. You feel her gather your hair off your face, her fingers brushing across the delicate skin of your nape to comfort but it dredges up something else. A flash of Bucky holding you down by the back of your neck and the rough scrape of the plastic mattress against your skin. 

You jerk away from Natasha but she captures your elbow in a gentle grip to keep you from tripping. When you realize the eyes that catch your gaze are green and not blue the memory crests and fades away until you’re left blinking back tears.

“Come on,” Natasha urges gently. 

You can hear her speaking quietly to the rest of the team on the comms but her words don’t register. It’s all you can do to concentrate on walking, the tile cold on your bare feet. You try not to think about the sticky mess between your thighs or the taste of blood in your mouth as she leads you down a long hallway. If you concentrate on any feeling too long you’re afraid you’ll fall apart so you hold onto that numbness. 

“Almost there,” Natasha soothes. 

The arm she wraps around your shoulder as she leads you up the ramp of the quinjet is firm, protective. You let her settle you in the copilot seat and wrap a blanket tightly around your body. Time seems to flow around you as you stare at the metal grating of the floor. When you blink you’re back at the compound and Natasha is at your side again, leading you out into the cool night. You can see two women waiting on the helipad, dressed in white scrubs. 

“We need to get you looked at,” Natasha murmurs. 

You feel strangely passive, sitting in the backseat of your own body as you follow the two women down to the medical bay. You let them guide you to sit down on the hospital bed and ease the blanket from your shoulders. 

The quiet gasp of one of the nurses has everything rushing back in. Her expression is horrified and for the first time, you look down at yourself. Beneath the blood on your chest, you can see the purpling bruises along your stomach and arms but it’s the deep cut along the swell of your right breast that draws your attention. You remember the feeling of the skin splitting open, your voice already hoarse from screaming. The vacant look in Bucky’s eyes as he followed each command from the man. 

Suddenly you’re perfectly aware of how soiled your body is.

“I want a shower,” you whisper, grasping at the edges of the blanket to pull it over your body again. Gloved hands settle over yours and you flinch away. 

“After we treat your wounds,” the nurse says.

The pity on her face makes you want to cry, throat burning as you try to swallow down a sob. There’s a tightness building in your chest, a horrible heat spreading through your limbs that makes your skin tingle painfully. You feel yourself coming untethered, hands shaking with the effort it takes to hold the blanket tight around your body.

“I want a shower, I want a shower,” you chant quietly, an edge of hysteria to your voice as you squeeze your eyes shut. You keep repeating the words over and over again like a mantra under your breath as you fight to breathe. You’re dimly aware of raised voices, people speaking all at once. When you open your eyes again it's quiet. The nurse and the doctor are gone. Only Natasha remains, crouched in front of you. She’s watching you with a gentle expression on her face and after a moment you realize she is speaking to you.

“Take a deep breath. Breathe in and out. In and out.”

It takes you a moment to follow her instructions and another for your panicked breathing to level out.

“We are going to leave and get you a shower but then we need to come back. Ok?” she asks. There is no pity in her gaze, just soft understanding. 

When you nod your head she reaches her hand out and you grasp it tightly, letting her pull you up and lead you away. The bathroom she takes you to is small and smells overwhelmingly of bleach. You watch Natasha set out a hospital gown and a small bag of toiletries on the sink beside two towels. She turns on the water, testing it carefully with an upturned palm. 

“I’ll be right outside,” Natasha assures you as she pulls the door shut behind her. 

You avoid the mirror above the sink as you drop the blanket on the floor and discard what remains of your dress. You wash yourself carefully but you don’t let your gaze linger too long on any one part of your body, afraid any newly revealed injury will bring the memories rushing back to the surface. It’s not until you’ve dried yourself off and eased into the papery hospital gown that you let yourself look into the mirror. 

You look haggard and your skin feels like it’s stretched too tight over the bones of your face. Eyes just as empty as Bucky’s had been. You touch the thin, neat line of red that splits your bottom lip in two. The rest of your face is smooth and unmarked. The man wanted to keep you pretty. 

_“They’ll need to recognize the body, darling.”_

The memory of his voice, the one that told Bucky just how to hurt you, breaks down the last thread of calm numbness that’s held you in its grip since Natasha found you. Panic floods your body and suddenly you’re back on that bed again, in the strange cell like room staring at the man’s brown eyes as Bucky moves over you, silent except for his harsh breaths against your ear. You don’t realize you’re screaming until Natasha grabs your arms, her nails digging into your bruised skin. She’s trying to pull you back, calm you down but when you look at her all you see are the man’s dark brown eyes, bottomless and terrifying. You lash out, fighting against the hands trying to hold you still.

There’s a pinch on your inner arm and then suddenly you’re falling, fading into nothingness.

—

You return to consciousness slowly, eyes fluttering open as the world around you filters in. You see the early morning sun streaming through the blinds, illuminating the white walls, and hear the steady beep of machinery. You’re in the medical wing of the Avengers compound. Natasha is asleep in the chair beside you, still in her catsuit. The small, pained grunt you make when you try to sit up has her eyes snapping open immediately. Her gaze is hard but when she sees you the look in her eyes softens, her body relaxing. 

At the questioning look in your eyes, she gives you a small, sad smile. She already knows what you’re going to ask. 

“We have Bucky.”

You nod, closing your eyes briefly as you blink back the tears that threaten to fall.

“Shuri’s on her way to help with the deprogramming. Physically he’s okay,” she tells you.

“That’s good,” you hear yourself say. You feel a brief moment of relief knowing he’s safe, that he’ll be Bucky again soon but fades into something else after a moment. Fear. Apprehension. Everything’s jumbled together inside, emotions shifting too quickly for you to hold on to one feeling for too long.

“Are you in pain?” Natasha asks and you realize then how tensely you’re holding yourself, jaw clenched and eyes closed. 

You shake your head.

Besides the sharp jolt of pain in your wrist when you sat up earlier, physically the rest of you feels remarkably good, light even. Whatever drugs they have you on are doing their work. It’s not that same blank numbness from before but something softer.

You cling to that feeling and try to quiet your mind when the doctor comes later to review your various injuries and treatments. A broken rib, a fractured wrist, two broken fingers, lacerations, and several bruises and abrasions. You concentrate on the chipped polish of her nails as she curls them around her datapad, only half-listening to her and Natasha speak about the plan to discharge you in three days. You can’t meet the doctor’s gaze when she says goodbye, the sympathy in her eyes overwhelming. You see it nearly everyone who comes to check your vitals or clean your wounds throughout the day. Only Natasha looks at you like you’re not something broken or fragile. 

A sliver of fear creeps into the calmness you’ve let blanket your body. What will the others think when they find out, when they know what was done to you? You’ve seen it in movies, in countless tv shows. You're a victim now. Maybe that’s all you’ll ever be to them. Anxiety floods your body. Distantly you’re aware of a beeping noise increasing. It’s your heart monitor you realize, revealing your distress.

Beside you Natasha stands. You know she’s going to call for a nurse but you don't want that, you don’t want anyone else looking at or touching you. Your fingers find the little white square the nurse showed you earlier and you depress the button. After a moment your heart slows, the monitor quiets and you feel like you’re floating, free as the drugs work into your system. The last thing you see before you drift into that inky blackness is Natasha’s wide green eyes.

\--

You spend most of the day drifting in and out of sleep. When you wake again, feeling more lucid than before, the sun is setting. It bathes the room in comforting oranges and yellows. You think about asking Natasha the question that sits like a stone in your stomach. 

It takes you a few moments to find the courage, clearing your throat quietly to draw her attention away from the magazine in her lap. There’s no use hedging around it. You know Natasha likes directness. 

“Did they find the man?” 

“Yes.”

You breathe out harshly, throat tight with emotion but there is no relief like you expect. Just fear, bright and hot in your chest. 

“What will happen to him?”

“Nothing good,” Natasha tells you.

Although her voice is calm, conversational even, you see something dark and wet glittering in her eyes. You forget sometimes what she was, what she could be. She hides it well, behind soft smiles and easy laughs. You think of her file, what the Red Room did to her and so many other girls. There’s an understanding between you now that didn’t exist before. It’s not one you want but it’s one you have. It’s what lets you know she’ll make him pay for what he’s done. Violently. Painfully. 

You should be horrified or maybe even comforted but instead, all you feel is a strange terrifying numbness. A realization that nothing will ever make what happened better or bring back what you were before.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to @cherryslibrary for her amazing beta work and @syntheticavenger for being my personal cheerleader when writing this chapter. Come say hello on tumblr!

Steve comes to visit you two days later with a bundle of stargazer lilies clasped tightly in his hands. He hovers in the doorway, looking uncertain in a way you’ve never seen before. You don’t miss the questioning look he sends Natasha or the single eyebrow lift she shoots him back. You have never been good at reading the silent communication the rest of the team shares but you think there’s something guarded in Natasha’s gaze as she watches Steve. 

Over the last few days, she’s hardly left your side, always ready to place herself between you and others if you need her. Natasha seems to know what you’re feeling or what you want, even before you do but it doesn't grate on you as you expect. It makes you feel safe.

Her eyes are on you now and you know if you wanted her to she’d make Steve leave. 

“Come in,” you say, watching the way Steve’s shoulders drop slightly, a small smile breaking out across his face at the sound of your voice. 

“I brought your favorite flowers,” he tells you, setting the bouquet on your table. Their lightly perfumed scent is a nice reprieve from the sterile smell you’ve been surrounded with. 

Steve’s eyes linger on the angry red stitches peeking out of the top of your hospital gown and you see the pained expression on his face as his eyes scan and catalog all the injuries he can see. He stares the longest at the delicate skin of your throat and the imprint of Bucky’s hand that’s still visible. You know Steve well enough to know he’s already blaming himself for this, shouldering a responsibility that’s not his to bear.

You want to tell him it’s okay, that you’re okay because that’s what you do. You soothe and ease them through uncomfortable things but when you open your mouth to speak nothing comes out. How are you supposed to convince him everything is fine when you feel so brittle?

“Thank you. They’re beautiful,” you tell him instead as you reach out to rub the velvety petals of the flowers between the fingers of your good hand. When you pull your fingers away they’re stained orangey-red with pollen. For a brief moment, you think it looks like blood and the image before you shifts. 

Your blood on Bucky’s hands and the man’s brown eyes wet with excitement. 

Natasha’s cool fingertips brush against the skin of your wrist and you blink rapidly as the memory fades. Beside you, Steve draws in a quiet breath, face creasing in concern. You can feel him watching you, willing you to talk to him. He opens and closes his mouth twice. When he glances at Natasha you almost miss the quiet sigh that slips out between her parted lips. 

“The doctors think she’ll be ready to be released tomorrow evening,” Natasha says.

Steve falls into a quiet conversation with her after that, asking about how you’re doing and if your injuries are healing. You know you should say something but it’s all you can do to sit there numbly, watching the distressed look return to Steve's eyes each time he looks away from Natasha to sweep his gaze over your body. Worse is the way his eyes soften into that same pity the nurses looked at you with when your eyes meet. 

You look away, shame welling up inside you as you let their words wash over you, only half listening as you find that quiet void inside your head. You don’t realize the conversation between Steve and Natasha has shifted until you hear Steve raise his voice. 

“It’s been three days, Nat. I need that incident report.”

You glance up at his agitated tone.

Natasha looks unperturbed but you see the hand she rests on your bed tighten into a fist. Her gaze flickers to you and Steve follows it. His expression softens when your eyes meet. 

“I’m sorry,” he soothes, hands spread wide in front of him like you’re a skittish animal. You feel your face flush, anger curling in your gut at the implication you’d come undone at something so simple as a raised voice. You force yourself to hold his gaze and it feels good, the brief spark of something, anything instead of that strange nothingness that’s settled over you. It makes you draw yourself up straighter in the bed and lift your chin. 

“Hardly the first time I’ve heard you two go at,” you tell him with a tight smile. 

You watch him rub the back of his neck in a way that you know means he feels uncomfortable or embarrassed. 

“Still shouldn’t have raised my voice,” he admits, blowing out a sigh. “Anyway, I didn't come here to talk to Natasha. I wanted to speak with you about something.” 

He draws his top lip between his teeth in a familiar gesture and you know you won’t like whatever he's going to say.

“I’d like to move you to the compound, for your own safety,” he starts, hands settling on his hips. His captain’s pose. “I know you said no before but the situation has changed. It’s not safe for you to be living so far away in an unsecured location.”

You know what Steve looks like when he’s gearing up to steamroll someone when he’s already made up his mind and decided he’s right. You’d found it amusing when you watched him do it with annoying reporters or slick congressmen. He’s never done it to you before, he was always open to your opinion even when he didn’t agree. 

It’s suddenly, painfully clear the respect and trust that existed between you and Steve before has been eclipsed by what’s happened. The worry that’s lived under your skin since you woke in the hospital rises to the surface as Steve confirms your worst fears. You’re a victim now, someone he has to protect. Not a colleague or an equal. 

Whatever fight you felt moments ago dissolves at the realization.

“Okay,” you tell him, voice flat.

He smiles at you brightly, hands falling away from his hips as he relaxes. 

A familiar lump forms in your throat and you feel your lip quiver. You don’t want to cry in front of Steve. You’ve already shown him too much weakness.

“I’m tired,” you tell Natasha quietly.

“She needs to rest Steve. You should go.” Natasha says. 

You can tell Steve is taken back by her cool tone, his expression faltering as he glances between the two of you. 

“Oh. Sure, yeah, okay.” 

He lingers in the doorway and for a moment you think he’s going to say something, but then his gaze jumps to Natasha. Whatever he sees in her expression makes him turn away with a troubled frown and a quiet goodbye. 

The urge to cry is overwhelming, the pressure behind your eye almost painful but you force yourself to take deep, steady breaths. You can’t come undone just yet. It takes several moments before you feel your body calm and you can blink away the few errant tears that have escaped. 

“Does Steve know everything that happened?” 

“He and the others know you were beaten and severely injured,” Natasha tells you slowly, brows furrowed. 

“Do they have to know everything the soldier did? About the... the assault,” you ask, stumbling over what you want to say. 

You can’t even bring yourself to say the actual word. What the man made Bucky do to you. 

“No,” Natasha says slowly, watching your face carefully. “Not if you don’t want them to. I see no additional benefit in them knowing the intimate details of the attack.” 

“I don’t want them to know,” you tell her.

Natasha pauses before she speaks again. Her expression is relaxed but you see a flicker of concern in her eyes. “Bucky could remember though. Not now, but maybe sometime in the future.”

“Or he could never remember,” you counter. 

You read the SHIELD files Natasha dumped the day Hydra was revealed and you had access to Bucky’s psych reports. The memories of his time with Hydra and the only other time he was activated were spotty at best. Sometimes he could recall things with perfect clarity but a lot of it was lost. Unlikely to come back. The doctors had likened it to a fugue state. The more traumatic the memory the less likely he was to recall it. 

“I know the risk and what I’m asking you to do,” you tell her, reaching out to curl your good hand around hers as you hold her gaze. You can’t hide everything that’s happened to you but you can control this. You can decide the narrative you’ll tell the others. You can’t afford to show any more weakness, not after what happened with Steve earlier. You have to be strong.

After a moment Natasha relents, squeezing your hand gently. 

“Okay,” she promises.

\--

When you’re released from the medical wing the next evening you find an expensive looking bottle of champagne sitting on your new kitchen counter. The cramped handwriting on the high quality cardstock is familiar. 

_Welcome to the kidnapped and tortured club. The trauma will cost you but the booze is free._ \- Tony

The note startles a laugh out of you, a rush of amusement that has you smiling despite the way the skin around you split lip stings with the motion. It feels good, cleansing even to feel an emotion as simple as joy, to have someone treat you with anything but careful concern. You feel a sudden, unexpected wave of affection for Tony. It’s easy to forget what happened to him in those afghan caves and how he hides himself behind a carefully crafted facade of humor and alcohol to cope. It makes you think of Natasha and her veneer of detached coolness, of the veil of righteousness Steve clokes himself in, and Sam’s easy humor. 

You wonder what armor you’ll learn to draw around yourself, the lies you’ll tell the world to move forward. 

\--

You don’t dream the first night in your new apartment but it’s not a restful sleep either. Each unfamiliar noise makes you tense up and draw the covers tighter around your body. You know you’re safe here but the heavy weight of your anxiety twists the shadow in your room into something more sinister. Closing your eyes is worse, the spectre of brown eyes and the man’s awful laugh lingers in your mind. 

When you wake later, slumped upright in your bed with every light in your apartment on, the sky is still dark. Your body is on fire, each injury making itself known as you try to sit up and untangle your legs from your bedsheets. For a moment it’s all you can do to suck in a pained breath and stare at the grey walls of your new apartment that remind you too much of the hospital room. Tears burn in your eyes and you force yourself to dry swallow the handful of pills on your bedside time. You lay in bed until dawn spread over your room, bright and warm, and your body is numb once again.

When Natasha shows up at 9 am, ready and determined to get you unpacked, you’ve showered and made coffee. She doesn’t say it but you know she thinks it’ll help to be surrounded by the cheerful knick knacks and colorful paintings that cluttered your old apartment. Things from your old life. You're surprised to see Wanda standing behind her, clutching what looks like goulash soup. The smile she gifts you with is sweet but tentative. You and Steve agreed early on to keep her out of the spotlight so you don’t know her well beyond briefly exchanged greetings in passing. She looks young, deceptively fragile but you know she’s been touched by Hydra’s terrible violence too.

When you accept the soup from her, fingers touching briefly, you’re filled with an odd sense of calm and peace. Wanda is surprisingly funny, eager to use her gifts to make you laugh and annoy Natasha as she tries to keep everyone focused on the task at hand. By mid afternoon you’re mostly unpacked and the grey walls are dotted with photos and paintings. 

You’re tired and achy despite not doing much more than pointing where you wanted things. There’s a lingering sharpness in your side and your fingers feel stiff enough that you accept the glass of water and handful of pills Natasha gives you without complaint. You let her fuss over you a little longer and the three of you eat dinner together, talking about mundane things. It feels nice, normal even. 

\--

It’s late, close to 3 am and you can’t sleep. The nightmare that woke you earlier, a blend of imagined horrors and the very real ones you experienced, hovers at the edges of your mind. It makes sleep impossible despite how worn out you feel. You toss back the covers, thinking about the fancy set of hot cocoa flavors in the common room that Natasha tried to use to coax you out of your apartment earlier. It’s irresponsible to drink something so sugary late at night but it’s not like you have anywhere to be in the morning. You’re still on medical leave until the end of the week and with sleep so elusive there’s little to occupy your time. You can only watch so much TV and your pain meds make it impossible to concentrate on a book. 

When Friday confirms the common room is deserted you slip into a pair of flats and shrug on an oversized cardigan. You feel a prickle of anxiety when you reach the dimly lit kitchen, the expanse of glass windows reflecting the interior of the room and the inky blackness outside. You hover at the entrance, uncertain for a moment before you push yourself to move forward. There is nothing here that can hurt you.

Pulling down an oversized mug and the jug of milk from the fridge you scan the different options before settling on one. It only takes a few minutes to heat up the milk and stir in the pouch. When you bring the cup to your lips, inhaling the heady scent of chocolate and caramel you feel your body relax a fraction. The warmth in your hands helps too and you lean against the counter, eyes falling closed.

You stay like that for a few minutes, mind blessedly empty and calm but when you open your eyes a moment later it all falls away when you catch sight of a shape in the window.

Bucky.

His features are distorted by the play of light against the glass but the gleam of his metal arm is unmistakable. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s not alone, head bowed and movements unsteady as he heads towards you. When you turn to face him hot cocoa sloshes over the rim of the cup and your hiss when the hot liquid scalds your hand. Bucky’s head snaps up at the sound, recoiling when he sees you. His whole body jerks back like he expects a blow. Something in your chest tightens at the sight of him but it’s not fear. 

He looks terrible, hair greasy and matted and his skin is sallow and pale. When your gaze meets his, the guilt and self-loathing you see in his blue eyes sucks the breath from your lungs. 

For a moment you want so badly for this to be okay. For you and Bucky to be okay. You don’t want to remember all those horrible things each time you look at him but fear laces through you, tight and hot at the sight of him. You’re helpless against the way your body responds to him, to what was done to you, to how dirty and used up you feel all over again. 

“It’s okay,” you whisper to yourself as you try to take in a steady breath and calm your racing heart. You don’t miss the way Bucky flinches at the sound of your voice. “I’m okay,” you promise yourself as you will away the feelings he dregs up inside you. _You’re safe. It wasn't Bucky, it was the man,_ you think, tears leaking out hot against the side of your face as you close your eyes and draw in a shaky breath. 

When you open them again a moment later he's gone and you’re alone again. You expect to feel better but the awful pressure in your chest doesn’t relent. Instead, you’re left with a strange amalgam of feelings, unsure if you feel relief from his absence or a pained longing for him, for what you had before. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me a lot of trouble. I agonized over a lot of the wording and plot but it’s done.

Natasha and Steve are waiting outside your apartment when you return from the medical wing. The happy, floating feeling you’ve let yourself indulge in since the doctor promised she would clear you to return to work next week fades at the look on their faces. Steve looks grim, the set of his brow somewhere between angry and determined but it’s Natasha’s expression that gives you pause. **  
**

There’s a tightness in her eyes despite the neutral expression on her face. It’s not something you’d noticed before this last week, but you’re starting to learn her expressions. Or at least she’s letting you see them now. Whatever it is, you understand enough to know she's angry. 

“Is everything okay?” you ask. 

“Let’s talk inside,” Steve suggests with a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. He takes a seat on your ottoman, gesturing for you and Natasha to sit on the couch once you’re inside your apartment. 

“I want you to know that you can absolutely say no to what I am about to ask you.”

“Okay,” you say, a sense of unease settling over you as you glance between Natasha and Steve. 

“We haven’t been as successful as we’d like getting the information we need from the man who took you and Bucky,” Steve starts, watching your face carefully. “He’s been resistant to our more persuasive interrogation techniques. He has asked to see you. If you think you’re up for it we’d like you to try speaking with him.”

You say nothing, too surprised to speak. The thought of being in the same room as the man who took you and Bucky brings that strange numbness rushing back, a coldness spreading through your veins. You look at Natasha then, the question clear in your eyes.

“I can’t make this decision for you,” she says quietly.

You swallow past the lump forming your throat as you nod, holding onto her gaze for a moment longer. You draw comfort from the support you see in her eyes before turning back to face Steve. 

“Do I have to decide right now?” you ask. 

“Of course not,” Steve reassures you with another smile.

“I’ll let you know tomorrow,” you tell him. 

Natasha gives your arm a reassuring squeeze before she stands, ushering Steve from your apartment.

You don’t sleep after they leave, your body seesawing between overwhelming anxiety and the relentless sense of fear. You don’t think you’re strong enough to face that man ever again and just the thought of it makes bile rise up your throat.

You hate these feelings, how out of control and emotional you are. You want that numbness back desperately, for the all-consuming nothingness to blot out your grief and anger. You know the moment you reach for the fridge door, you’re making a mistake but there’s only a moment of indecision before you grab the bottle of champagne that Tony sent.

You flinch at the loud sound of the cork popping but you’re quick to press the bottle to your lips, taking a large gulp. It’s fizzy and overly sweet but you drink it down anyway, coughing when the carbonation becomes too much. You drink until it’s all gone and your body feels numb and light again and your mind isn’t so loud. 

Your head is swimming when you drop your body on the bed, wincing when pain laces up your side from your injured rib. Your breathing is labored and the room spins as you roll on your back. You know you need to make your decision now before everything comes rushing back in and you’re left feeling fractured again. You want to be brave and strong, to rally against all these awful feelings and do the right thing. How many other innocent people could be caught up by this man’s plan, likely already in motion? You can’t let anyone else suffer like Bucky and you have. You won’t. No one deserves that.

“FRIDAY?” you ask, looking up at the empty white expanse of your ceiling and feeling braver than you are. “Tell Captain Rogers I will do it. Tomorrow.”

\--

You wake hours later, the midday sun letting you know it’s afternoon. Your head is pounding and your body feels groggy from your hangover and missed pain pills. FRIDAY informs you that Natasha will be by within the hour and for a moment you’re confused until your drunken decision from last night comes rushing back in. Your mouth feels dry and your throat is raw but you force yourself up and into the shower. The bravado from last night may have left you but that same streak of stubbornness remains. 

You can do this.

You have no other choice. 

\--

The room Natasha leads you to is part of the facility you didn't know existed, deep underground. It’s large and looks like the kind of interrogation room you’ve seen on TV. The man is shackled to a metal table that’s bolted to the floor. You can tell he’s been cleaned up recently but nothing can hide the way half his face is swollen and black. Several of his fingers look like they’re broken and when he smiles you see he’s missing two of his teeth. 

He looks awful. It should make you feel better you think, seeing him broken and debased but all you can think about is how you must have looked the night Natasha found you. 

“I’ll be just on the other side of that glass,” Natasha promises, gesturing to the two way mirror behind you. She sweeps a hand up your arm, giving your shoulder a comforting squeeze before she leaves. 

“I’ll admit, I didn’t think they’d let you come,” the man says when you return your attention to him. 

The sound of his voice, so much deeper and richer than in your dreams, brings back that feeling of your lungs filling with sand. You have to look away from him to remind yourself he can’t hurt you. That you’re safe here. You glance up at the two-way mirror to see your own face reflected back at you but you know Natasha is there too. The knowledge eases the tight band around your chest and you breathe out, turning around to face the man again. 

You’re about to open your mouth to ask him the list of questions Natasha helped you memorize earlier when the sound of the door opening behind you stills your words. You’re expecting Natasha or maybe Steve but instead, it’s Bucky. 

Your small intake of breath isn’t missed by the man. His grin grows even wider as he sits up straighter in his chair, nearly vibrating with excitement. You get the impression if his hands were free he might have clapped them together in delight. 

“Oh, I must have been a very good boy indeed to get both of you,” he says with a wide smile that must be painful with the state of his face. “It’s been so tedious with just the little spider.”

“Shut up,” Bucky barks, his expression tight. He doesn’t look at you, his focus solely on the man. You’ve never seen him look so angry before, his metal arm whirring in agitation. “We’re here. Now tells us why we were taken.”

“Right to the point I see. How droll,” he says to you with a bored sigh.

Despite the tone of his voice you know he’s watching you both carefully, something calculating and cold in his dark brown eyes that makes your hair stand on end. Beside you, Bucky shifts, agitated and intense but you remain perfectly still, not even daring to breathe. You don’t know what he’s looking for but you don’t want to give anything away. 

“Oh,” the man says after a moment, his voice low with delight. He leans forward in his chair, the chains that bind him rattling against the metal of the table. “He doesn’t remember yet, does he?” 

Something cold and oily settles in your gut at his words and the hungry look on his face. You know what he’s going to say before he does but you're helpless to stop it. Helpless to keep Bucky from the truth you asked Natasha to hide. You were stupid, so stupid to think that you were ready for something like this. That you could control the story without everything crashing down around you. 

“She was beautiful in her suffering, in how sweetly she begged you to stop. We left such exquisite marks together, you and I,” the man tells Bucky with a sigh. He sounds almost dreamy in his remembrance and you feel the sharp taste of bile in your throat. 

You’re unprepared when his gaze swings back to you, eyes glittering with sick amusement. 

“Can you still feel him inside you, dear? I’m told that kind of rough misuse lingers.”

His words bring you back to that room, to the plastic cot beneath you and you have to look away from his awful face to avoid the pull of your memories. Your gaze skitters over the room, unseeing until you catch sight of Bucky. You expect blankness or maybe even rage, a burst of deadly violence but he’s frozen, just as you were moments before. His eyes are wild and wide, his expression a mix of horror, shame, and pain. You think he looks like he might be sick, skin shock white.

“Stop,” you say weakly, voice hardly above a whisper. “Stop.”

“You bled so very much. Was it your first time?”

Beside you, Bucky drops to his knees, the crack of his bones against the concrete floor loud in the quiet room. His chest heaves once as he sways before he turns away and vomits on the floor. He looks vulnerable, body curled in on itself as he shakes and wretches. When you look back to the man his attention is focused on Bucky, brown eyes alive with the same sick delight you remember from before. 

You know then he’s never going to tell you anything. He only wants to continue the same twisted game as before and that realization brings with it anger that rises so sharply inside of you that it leaves you breathless. This man has taken so much from you and Bucky. He took what could have been between you and he took your story, what was yours to tell. You won’t let him take any more.

“You’re going to die,” you tell the man, watching the confusion in his dark brown eyes as his gaze swings from Bucky to you. It’s clear he didn’t expect you to speak again. 

“It’s going to be horrible and painful. She’ll make sure of it,” you tell him, glancing behind you to where Natasha has slipped into the room. “Bucky and I will get to live our lives, move on from this. You’ll never leave this room.”

You’re not sure what you expected from the man now but it’s certainly not his laughter.

“Oh my, we underestimated you didn’t we?” he asks with a smile. “Very well my dear. I’ll tell you what you want to know. For a price.”

\--

It’s not until you’re out of the room that your body starts to shake and your breathing comes out in strange, labored spurts. There’s a buzzing in your head, growing louder as your legs go numb and you stumble. The ground rushes up to meet you but just as your knees skim the floor strong hands under your arms drag you up and haul you against a warm, broad chest. 

You turn your head, meeting familiar grey-blue eyes. You should feel something you think, fear, or relief at his touch but nothing comes. You’re too overwhelmed by what the man revealed and the implications of Hydra’s plan. Wordless you let Bucky guide you to one of the chairs before watching him retreat to the farthest corner of the room. The silence between you stretches, long and unbearable as Steve and Natasha speak, their voices overlapping. He looks away from you, gaze on the floor.

You know you’re going to fall apart later, you can feel it even now, hovering on the edge of your awareness. A trap waiting for you to step into but you can’t just yet. You have to deal with what the man revealed and find a way to mitigate the damage that’s coming for the team. Even if you’d never admit it out loud, there’s a small, terrible part of your brain that recognizes Hydra’s plan is well crafted. A way to demoralize the Avengers, break public trust, and ensure Bucky could never come back if he was ever rescued again in one fell swoop. You might have called it elegant if your own death wasn’t part of it.

It would start with releasing a video of your torture, assault, and death at the hands of Bucky to the news stations the man explained. You were a vocal supporter of Bucky’s place on the team along with Steve. You’d both promised on national television that Bucky was safe and no longer susceptible to Hydra control. A video of what was done to you would have been shocking, galvanizing the people that wanted the Initiative dissolved.

You know what would have come next, you can picture clearly how the carefully repaired fault between Tony and Steve would dissolve. Steve would go after Bucky and it wouldn’t be to bring him back to face trial. General Ross would see to it that the accords were ratified next and use the turn in public sentiment against the Avengers to get what he wanted.

“If there was a tape it’s likely gone, destroyed when we took the base. This isn’t something Hydra would just sit on,” Natasha says. She’s addressing the group but her attention is on you. 

“I agree,” Steve says but he doesn’t look at you or Natasha. He’s focused solely on Bucky, his blue eyes full of so much warmth and concern for his friend that you have to look away.

Without the tape, the only proof of what happened is your medical records and the report given to the World Security Council. You know the council would never make it public, it would reflect poorly on them but they could still transfer you away and remove Bucky from the team. Dealing with them will be tricky but you find it hard to think of anything except the man in the other room.

“Will the council give the man what he asked for?” You ask.

“He’ll get a bullet in the head and an unmarked grave,” Natasha tells you, her soft expression at odds with the violence in words.

“The World Security Council would never sanction that,” you tell her with a frown. 

Natasha says nothing, her gaze darting to Steve who looks hesitant, shifting under your combined gaze.

“I didn’t file a report about what happened,” Steve admits. Out of the corner of your eye you see Bucky’s head shoot up, naked surprise on his face. “We didn’t think it was in the best interest of you or Bucky for them to know,” Steve continues as Natasha scoffs. 

“You didn’t think it was in Bucky’s best interest,” she says, the venom in her voice enough to make Steve look sharply at her. You understand her fury. You feel that same anger unfurling inside your chest at Steve’s admission but it’s a cold, quiet thing that strips away everything else and leaves you with a strange sense of strength. 

“I understand,” you say as you stand, the sound of metal on concrete drawing Steve’s attention to you.“It’s always about Bucky. Even when it was happening to me. It was about him.” 

There’s a part of you that knows your words are unfair to Bucky, that you’ll be haunted later by the look on his face but the need to be heard, to give a voice to all the pain and suffering you feel eclipses everything else. 

“It may have been the right decision but you made it without us Steve,” you tell him. “You took away our choice to decide how to handle what happened to us, how to tell our story and you set us on a path that we have no choice but to follow.” 

When Steve opens his mouth you cut him off with a shake of your head, gratified by the flicker of shame and guilt you see pass over his face. 

“I won’t say anything to the council or anyone outside this room. But that’s because it’s my decision. It’s what I want. Maybe you should ask Bucky what he wants,” you tell Steve as you brush past him, not stopping until you reach the door.

You don’t look back at him but your voice is clear in the silence of the room. 

"You're done making decisions for me."


End file.
